


Distortion In You And Me

by LordiTheUltimate



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Abduction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Decisions, Blood and Gore, Doomed Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gore, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mild Gore, Moral Ambiguity, On the Run, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating May Change, References to Depression, Stockholm Syndrome, Survival, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Thriller, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordiTheUltimate/pseuds/LordiTheUltimate
Summary: After he survives a special trap, Matt Gibson now finds himself under the watchful eye of Mark Hoffman, the man who once saved his life. Soon they are on the run, trying to stay alive while being chased by police and a mortal enemy of Hoffman's.And without anyone else to confide in, Gibson begrudgingly puts his trust in Hoffman.And ultimately falls for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a short story that I have stored on my PC for eons lol. I remember writing a script for this after a Saw marathon (when there were only 7 films).  
> OK so consider this an alternative ending to Saw 7 or an AU or alternative scenario or whatever where Gibson survives the gun trap (bulletproof west and all)  
> So the number of chapters might change when I rewrite my drafts but for now, it's only ten.  
> Now that Jigsaw is out and I’ve watched it (convoluting the timeline even more so, holy shit) I might write more short Saw stories. I might make a series out of this. 
> 
> Things as ratings and tags might change depending on where I take the script.

ith hasty steps, Gibson led the way to Hoffman’s location. It was late evening and he was sure that the clock was near midnight, putting a dramatical closure to a hunt that lasted for too long. His grip on the gun tightened and his palms grew sweaty, warming the icy metal. His colleagues followed him with confidence as they closed in on the door that would lead them to Hoffman. Gibson felt a growing satisfaction at the thought of Hoffman behind bars. At last, his suspicions would be proven right. Approximately one and a half meter from the door, he signaled to one of the officers to kick the door in. Dust flew everywhere as they proceeded forwards and they all aimed their guns at the cloaked figure in the chair before us. With his free hand, he fetched out his phone and made a call to headquarters.

 “It’s over, Hoffman! Put your hands where I can see them!” he shouted, ignoring the restless feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. And the unnerving feeling did not shrink one bit as the figure sat motionless, like a statue. The sense of worry soon evolved into dread and Gibson grew alerted, waving one of the officers over to intercept the mysterious figure. He made sure his gun was loaded before any further engagement. The sweat trickled down his forehead and his heart pounded hard inside his chest.

“All right, it’s over.” An officer walked forth, aiming at the figure when he reached for the cloak. With a quick pull, he tore the cloak away, ready to fire if needed. In a split second, they all stood ready to fire a killing bullet.

“We got him now,” Gibson said, his voice shaking as the reality unfolded. The possibility of such had not occurred to him, and what he saw was not Hoffman in the chair but rather a corpse. More specifically one of the neo-Nazis from the latest trap. Gibson was flabbergasted and remained completely silent, trying to piece the puzzle together and make sense of how he was outsmarted like this. Every clue that they had figured out until this point had made sense, leading them here. Where did they go wrong?

_How was it possible?_

Suddenly, behind the computer desk, a sentry gun rose and began firing before anyone could react. The bullets rained over them and Gibson watched in horror as blood squirted out of his colleagues’ bodies and they fell to the floor, dead. The dirty ground was quickly covered in crimson, and a sharp twinge suddenly emerged in Gibson’s shoulder, causing him to stumble backward. Gibson groaned loudly in pain as the phone slid out of his hands. His eyes were wide open and all he saw were bullets and dust before he slammed his back against a counter and something from above hit him in the head, cutting his consciousness short.

* * *

The sound of a car engine awoke Gibson and he sat up, in pain from the encounter in the control lair. He rubbed the back of his head and looked around. Whatever hit him had left no permanent damage but he was still very sore. Outside, it was dark, except for the headlights on the road. His shoulder hurt from the gunshot but it had stopped bleeding as evident by the coagulated blood on his shirt. He noticed that part of the sleeve had been torn off and used as a bandage around the wound.

He grew alerted, his eyes darting around to find more information on his situation.  Who was even driving? Gibson moved a little to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver but then he suddenly noticed something glinting on the passenger’s seat.

_A gun._

Gibson’s blood ran cold and his heart skipped a beat. There were so many questions that needed to be answered. He got a feeling that the only logical action was to sit and wait, no matter how much he loathed to do so. It was safe to assume that whoever had saved him, also took him on their little joyride. Had they been some stranger they most likely would have called the emergency line. People tended to call Gibson naïve but he was not completely stupid.

 “You’re finally awake. Good.” Hoffman’s voice suddenly said, carrying that familiar icy cold tone.

“You… “ Gibson paused. “What is this?”

The was an eerie silence from Hoffman as he refrained from answering. Instead, the silence was replaced by sirens blaring in the distance. _Good_ , Gibson thought, feeling his nerves calming down a bit. Whatever Hoffman had in mind for him was soon to be thwarted by justice.

“Hold on,” Hoffman said, speeding the car up as police cars flashed their lights behind them. The cars came closer, close enough for Gibson to see three or so vehicles. If it hadn’t been for that gun on the front seat, he would most likely have done everything in his power to sabotage this ride. He contemplated whether or not to take advantage of the situation and try for the gun.

“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid,” Hoffman said as if he had read the officer’s mind.

It suddenly occurred Gibson that he still had his gun with him. As the car gassed up, Gibson reached for his gun as slowly as he could. Hoffman was likely busy with keeping the police at bay, giving Gibson enough time to snatch the gun without a sound.

“Pull over.” The officer said, masking all sense of fear that he initially had. His heart rapidly hammered behind his chest and the adrenaline was almost suffocating him. His hands were shaking now and cold sweat began to form on his forehead as Hoffman ignored him.

Swallowing a lump, the officer repeated himself. “Pull over. Or I’ll shoot,”

Still, there was no response from Hoffman as his attention primarily lay with the police cars behind them. The sirens howled in the distance and Gibson let out a stressed sigh. This was absurd; he was an officer, he had tried this many times before. Yet Gibson had always found himself intimidated by Hoffman’s presence, even though the man saved his life. But from the moment they met, Gibson knew that something was off with him.

In hindsight, an encounter of the law like this was bound to happen, although Gibson had not expected Jigsaw to be involved. He aimed the gun, pointing it at Hoffman and pulled the trigger.

There were no bullets.

Flabbergasted, Gibson pulled the trigger several times, only to hear a small click each time. A sinking feeling emerged in the pit of his stomach and his head reeled as the horrible truth settled. The gun slipped out of his hand and landed in the bottom of the car.

“I know you, Gibson. Can’t believe, you were gullible enough to think, I’d randomly leave a loaded gun within your reach.” Hoffman mocked, although, in an apathetic tone, that was insulting in its own right.

“Hold on.” He said and shut off the headlights of the car. Total darkness was cast around them except the neon lights from the police cars. Without an ounce of hesitation, he sped up and suddenly took an abrupt swing off the road, right into the depths of what Gibson could only describe as a dense mess of darkness. The car bumped several times while leaves and twigs flew over the screen. Yet Hoffman continued the pursuit through the forest. A branch smashed across the front window, cracking it.

“Y-you’re completely mental!” Gibson sat, dreading the obvious danger. The fact that Hoffman refused to answer him was the least of his worries. Soon, Hoffman loosened his seatbelt and for a quick moment, he turned to look at Gibson. His eyes were as cold and unforgiving as they had always been; Gibson had to look away but in the second he did, he noticed something in the far distance. Since they were driving at considerable speed, it only took a few moments before they closed in on the area and Gibson’s gut dropped once he realized where they were heading.

_A lake._

“Hoffman-“ Gibson barely managed to say before the care flew over the edge and flew into the lake, water flooding the insides of the car from the crack in the windshield, which grew bigger at an alarming rate. Completely surrounded by water, Gibson sat in horror as he feared that this would be the end of him but to his surprise, Hoffman suddenly crawled to the backseat and opened the back door. He took a tight grip around Gibson’s torso and pulled the officer out while the car rapidly sunk into the deep. Since Gibson practically had only one arm to use, his life depended on Hoffman, a thought that scared him endlessly. As soon as he could breathe again, Gibson coughed and snapped for air while Hoffman put him near the shore where the waters of the lake were shallow.

In the distance, the sound of sirens still howled through the night. Gibson wondered if the police knew that they had been chasing Hoffman all this time. Before he could properly process the events of the night, however, Hoffman yanked him to his feet and they began a grueling walk through the woods. The sirens soon died down and were replaced by crickets and owls, as well as the occasional car passing by on the road.

As the events of the night began to sink in with Gibson, so did the exhaustion and he found his movements sluggish and his vision blurry. Hoffman, however, continued as taking a jog in the park, walking over branches of rotten wood and dead leaves, whereas Gibson soon fell to his knees, his head pounding and his wound aching. All things considered, he

“Dammit… I can’t…”

Without responding, Hoffman walked over to Gibson, his hands shuffling around in his pockets. He fetched out a syringe and efficiently injected into the officer’s neck. Immediately, Gibson felt drowsy, just barely managing to look up at Hoffman in disbelief.

“What the fuck are you doing…?” he asked, his consciousness slipping away ever so effortlessly.

“You’ll thank me later.” Were the last words he heard before falling into a deep slumber once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of the end (angst)

When Gibson woke up, he immediately sat up, trying to grasp his surroundings. It appeared he was in a cottage of sorts, judging from the wooden walls and ceiling. As well as the barricaded windows. Gibson was still feeling fuzzy, either from his sleep or from the injection and all things considered, he was ready to lay down on the bed again and sleep. For a brief moment, he wondered if the events of the nights had simply been a dream and that he was back in his apartment. But then the aching of his shoulder started, serving as a cruel reminder that everything had been real, looking at his shoulder, he saw that the straps of clothing from his uniform had now been replaced with actual bandages, albeit blood-soaked

Slowly, Gibson emerged from the bed, shivers running down his spine. He still felt cold from the lake and the fact that he wasn’t wearing anything but his boxers didn’t help either. _Great_ , Hoffman had the nerve to undress him in his sleep.  He sneezed loudly before standing up, rubbing his eyes. The room that he was in, didn’t have a lot in it. Aside from the bed and the window, there was a small nightstand and a door. On the nightstand were a set of clothes.

If he was to confront Hoffman, he’d rather be dressed for the occasion than naked so begrudgingly, he dressed himself. The clothes consisted of a shirt, and some sweatpants, all colored grey, and black. It wasn’t something he’d usually wear, and judging from the size from, this most likely belonged to Hoffman. No matter how one looked at it, Hoffman was bigger than Gibson, if not a foot taller, then at least in muscle mass.

Suddenly the door opened, and Gibson jumped back. In a split second, he frantically searched for his gun, only to see that there was little, he could defend himself with. In the doorway, stood Hoffman with a plastic back, remaining unfaced by Gibson’s hostility. He placed the back on the floor and said, “You should eat it before it gets cold.”

“…What, is it poisoned?!”

Hoffman sighed deeply, looking at Gibson with those ice-cold eyes of his. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have left you alone while you bled to death. I could have let you drown in the lake. I could have shot you while you were sleeping. For a whole day, mind you. If I wanted to kill you, you would have been dead a long time ago.”

His voice was monotone and callous, bearing not a hint of remorse or hesitation. And it made Gibson think. All things considered, Hoffman had numerous chances of ending his life. Heck, he even saved it once.

But that left the questions; why keep him alive at all? Why bothering to take him to wherever the hell they were?

Reluctant, Gibson reached for the bag and opened it, his stomach growled as the scent of burgers hit his nostrils. He looked down and saw some junk food as well as a few sodas as well. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hoffman walk out the door and quietly close it.  Still, that didn’t stop Gibson from ransacking the bag. His stomach was howling for food so he sat down on the bed and proceeded to eat. Usually, Gibson barely ate junk food, or food at all on a normal workday aside from an apple or the occasional donut. Not the healthiest diet but it was enough to keep him going.

After he was done eating, he cautiously walked to the door. He didn’t hear a click when Hoffman came in so it was fair to assume that the door wasn’t locked. Gibson took a deep breath and grabbed the handle. With his heart in his throat, he pushed down and opened slowly opened the door. He peeked out of the crack and saw nothing but darkness, except for a streak of light coming from another room. Hoffman was nowhere to be seen so Gibson dared to exit the room, treading lightly on the wooden floor. For once, he was happy about being barefoot. Pressing himself against the wall, Gibson crept closer to the room, soon standing right next to the door. His heart couldn’t stop beating loudly, drowning out the deafening silence.

Taking a deep breath, Gibson carefully leaned to the side, narrowing his eyes as he adjusted to the sudden light. He saw tiny office room with maps and photos hanging on the wall. He glanced a little to the side, and saw Hoffman, sitting in front of a desk of sorts, with a monitor and a phone next to him. From the sounds alone, it would appear that he was busy with a computer.

 “Did you seriously drag him along? You know emotions can´t be involved.” An unknown man’s voice said, likely from the monitor. Gibson couldn’t see who it was but he had a funny feeling that they were talking about him.

“I am aware. He has nothing to do with this. So, I´ll do what I please.”

“What, you’re planning to make him one of us? How?”

“I know what the fuck I’m doing. You just keep _him_ away from us.” Hoffman’s voice grew dark and menacing, even colder than when he had talked to Gibson earlier. A heavy silence lingered in the room before the man in the monitor spoke again, albeit with a disappointed tone.

“This will be the end of you, Hoffman… but I’ll see what I can do. You should thank me, however; I removed the evidence of your little stunt.” And the monitor went black. For a few moments, Hoffman sat in his chair, motionless. It appeared that he was done with whatever he had been doing and quite Frankly, Gibson couldn’t bear the thought of confronting Hoffman when he was so unprepared. He knew he had to confront him sometime but without a weapon or any means of escape, doing so right here and now was a recipe for his own demise. Slowly. He backed away from the door and prepared to back away, slowly and surely without panic.

However, a chilling voice made him freeze in place.

“I know you’re there, Gibson,” Hoffman said and Gibson felt his blood run cold. Heavy footsteps soon followed and Hoffman exited the doorway, his body half-cast in the light and the darkness. Unfortunately, the light illustrated the horrible scar, Jill had indirectly given him.

“Ah-!”

“Didn’t I tell you not to do anything stupid?”

“I-I… I needed the bathroom.” Fearing for the worst, Gibson let out a silent scream when Hoffman suddenly grabbed his wrist and dragged him in the opposite direction, further into the darkness. What merely amounted to a few steps, felt like an eternity for the officer before Hoffman opened a door and turned on the light. Inside was a bathroom, or what tried to be one. There was not much in here except for a toilet, a shower without a curtain and a murky sink. If one removed most utensils, it could almost be mistaken for a butcher’s room.

 “Do your business. And don’t snoop around next time.”

“…The door was unlocked.”

“It was to test you. To see if you were still that gullible. Looks like you are.” And the door was closed. Only then, did Gibson somewhat relax. He did not really think of using the bathroom when Hoffman had caught him; in fact, it might be the worst lie he had ever told. But now that he was finally here, he might as well do his business. Apparently, Hoffman had put some level of trust in him, if he had left the door unlocked on purpose

Gibson hated to admit it but for the time being, he had no choice but to try and earn the trust of a psychopath; a man more insane than a bag of cats. The thought sent shivers down the officer’s spine but it was his best and possibly only option until a chance to escape arrived. Maybe he had to put his life on the line if he wanted to flee in one piece _. Live free or die trying_ , wasn’t that what they said?

* * *

“Hoffman,” Gibson said, his voice shaky. “Why did you take me with you? Why bother with me when you could, in your own words, kill me a long time ago? You want alive for some kind of game?”

“I’m done with the games,” Hoffman began, his back turned to Gibson, who had a hard time believing that was true. He knew a psycho when he saw one. It wasn’t out of nobility that Hoffman had killed that homeless man, even after he surrendered. He had done it because he wanted to and he could do the exact same thing to Gibson without blinking an eye.

”That’s someone else’s problem. But you… you still owe me for saving you those years ago.”

“So, what is it that you want?”

“…You’ll find out. You can calm down, however. I don’t want you dead.”

That’s only left more unanswered questions for the officer but he had no idea of where to start. He simply sat down on the bed again, feeling utterly hopeless. He buried his face in his head, only looking up when Hoffman left the bedroom without another word, this time locking the door.

He took a deep breath and lay down on the bed when suddenly he felt something sturdy on the back of his head. Sitting up, he realized, he had laid down on a newspaper. Well, at least he had something to do while being locked in here. The paper retold today’s news, smelling of rashly printed paper. There were ads for the typical stuff like shops and banks and other mundane findings that others would normally find in a newspaper but a few pages in made Gibson’s blood run cold; The place described a complete massacre at a local police station; not just a station but where he worked…

Everyone had been murdered, including Jill.

Gibson’s heartbeat increased, cold sweat formed in his palm and he felt nauseous and dizzy. As if the news literally made him sick. He was shaking all over. But he forced himself to continue. On the next page, was a superficial biography of Hoffman, as well as warrant out for his arrest and a number to call local law enforcement regarding his whereabouts. On the next page, was a missing’s person’s profile; Gibson’s.

A sudden wave of anger swerved through Gibson and in the blink of an eye, he jumped from the bed and headed straight to the door, slamming on as hard as he could. Violent thuds followed as his fists rained thunder on the wood, that still managed to stand until the door suddenly opened and Gibson was left hammering on the chest of an unfaced Hoffman. The officer kept hammering until Hoffman caught his wrists, holding them in place while Gibson struggled to move.

“You killed her! You hear me, you piece of shit! You murderer!” Gibson hissed, writhing and pulling.

“Did you forget that she attempted to murder me first?”

“What the hell? This isn’t fucking fourth grade! How could you?!”

“How could she, ask yourself that.”

“You…!”

Still livid but defeated, Gibson looked down. Hoffman had a point from a philosophical view but everyone else… his coworkers, people who did not deserve to die. Little by little, he stopped struggling, feeling the defeat take its toll on his body. Hoffman let go of him and watched in silence as he walked backward and plumped down on the bead, his head hanging low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the Stockholm + Lima syndrome will kick in soon enough, gotta get the angst in first.


	3. Chapter 3

Gibson couldn’t remember the last time, he had felt this empty. Like a void of flesh of cold blood with nothing but the vacancy found in the deepest corners of human depression. His emotions no longer held any distinctive differences between each other. Time, his feelings, everything felt like a mosaic of dull grey and solemn black. It was funny because these last couple of days, his body had been freezing, like as if he had received a fever.

The door opened and Hoffman entered with food, something he did two times a day. But these last couple of days, he’d walk out with it as well, because Gibson had no power in him to face Hoffman, let alone eat. Instead, he confined himself to his bed, curled into a ball. The sound of plastic rattled behind him but he neglected to react.

“You should eat. You haven’t eaten for two days.” Hoffman said behind him and still received no answer. It was not before Gibson felt a thud on the bed that he finally turned his head, only to see Hoffman sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned over a bit, carefully grabbing Gibson’s wrist.

“Let me check your wound,” he said all of a sudden, his voice carrying a softer, darker tone, although still too cold to be compassionate. Little by little, Hoffman pulled the shirt down Gibson’s shoulder and carefully unwrapped the bandages. It had since stopped bleeding but it was still painful whenever the officer moved his arm. It wasn’t something Gibson had taken notice of when he had been slamming the door a few days ago or when he did mundane tasks such as reading newspapers or using the bathroom.  But he couldn’t lay on that shoulder and that bothered him somewhat. Hoffman fished some fresh bandages out of his pockets and tidied Gibson up before rising from the bed.

“…Looks like it’s infected. Wait here.” He said.

 “Where are you going?” Gibson asked in his feverish state. He didn’t really know why he dared to ask because, at this point, he knew Hoffman would never give a straight answer. His words were always wrapped in some cryptic jabber, that gave him a sense of being two-faced. Or simply masking everything, he really meant.

And with that Hoffman left in a hurry. The bedroom door stood open, allowing the echoes of beeps, metallic sounds and a hollow door being slammed to travel through. Soon an uncomfortable silence layered over the hideout and Gibson got up from the bed, curiosity getting the better of him. He could feel the aching from his shoulder all over and he felt heavy and off balance but the desperation for answers and freedom was strong enough to drive him forward, health be damned.

The place was still cloaked in darkness so Gibson would have to feel his way through. He followed the same path as before, that day where he had seen Hoffman have his chat with whoever. Soon, he felt the edges of a doorframe and quickly searched for the handle before going inside. He felt around on the walls for a switch, figuring that was the way that Hoffman managed to see anything here at all. At last, the officer finally found it and he shielded his eyes as he adjusted to the light.

The computer room, as Gibson dubbed it, was not much. It was as small as his initial impression indicated. On the desk were one monitor and several pieces of computer equipment. There were several drawers and a few papers scattered about but that was about it. The papers didn’t reveal much; partly scripted letters to people, Gibson didn’t know.

That was until Gibson glanced to the right. On the wall, were several maps plastered all over, covering almost everything.  The maps had several scribbles and notes, detailing the state of law enforcement in several states and smaller cities, some of which, Gibson hadn’t ever heard of. Next to the maps were several pictures, photos and newspaper clippings. Gazing downwards, Gibson noticed detailed notes of several other countries. From the looks of it, Hoffman apparently planned to relocate.

But with Gibson?

This raised a whole slew of questions, all desperate for answers. Gibson found it impossible to make sense. Did Hoffman plan to take him away to wherever? Was this the setup of another game?

Gibson shuddered and turned to the drawers, hoping that he’d get at least one answer from there. He searched through the drawer for something, anything, until he found a flashlight. It was small and nimble and could perfectly fit in a pocket, but did it work?

Pressing the switch, he was delighted to see a beacon flash from the top. He stepped out of the office and discovered that the outer room was nothing more than a long but shallow hallway. In one end was the door to his bedroom, and in the other end were two doors; one was the bathroom but Gibson grew curious about the other one, that just happened to parallel his so-called bedroom.

By the looks of it, it appeared that the hallway was part of a bigger area.

Gibson hurried down the bare hallway until he finally stood at the two doors.  There was the one that led to the bathroom but then there was the other one; closer inspection and a knock concluded that the door was make out of metal and had no handle.

Next to the door was a switch, most likely for the light source. But a sinking feeling tied a knot in the pit of his stomach; the door was locked with a password of all things. There went his chance of escape. Gibson was starting to think that the ‘test’ that Hoffman had set up was more a mockery than anything.

The feeling of defeat was a horrible thing but it could have resonated with Gibson long enough for him to put it into words, had it not been for the mechanical sounds coming from the door. There was no point in acting surprised

“Matt…” Hoffman said, his voice once again carrying that soft tone. Perhaps he could see the hopelessness written all over Gibson’s face. It made his heart skip a beat however by the sound of his first name being used like that. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Hoffman. He refrained from answering, even when Hoffman wordlessly directed him to the bathroom.

“I just can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” Hoffman said, once more with that icy tone. Although in this case, it was more tired than anything. His hands were noticeably warm through his gloves, leaving a trail of tingling sensations as his fingers brushed against Gibson’s sides. This was merely coincidental so why was it so soothing?

Carefully, Hoffman pulled the shirt over the officer’s head and carelessly threw it across the floor. He headed towards a cabinet and grabbed some cleansing utensils. He ordered Gibson to sit down, holding him in position while he cleaned the wound.

“… Why did Jill…” Gibson said through gritted teeth, clenching his fist to comprehend the pain. “put you in that mouthpiece thing?”

“Reverse beartrap. It was my test. But Jill wanted me dead instead.”

“Why?”

Hoffman hesitated, his hands tightening their grip on Gibson’s shoulders.

“…Because I tipped the scales.” His voice was cold and hard with darkness but something else was there…. As if his voice was layered with disappointment. But over what? Gibson had a mountain of other questions to ask but he soon began to get the feeling that this was starting to hurt Hoffman as well. Not that he cared about Hoffman. No, he didn’t care at all. He couldn’t possibly.

“…Seth Baxter.” Gibson said with a small voice, his heart stopping for a second as a darkness filled with fury covered Hoffman’s eyes. His expression didn’t change much; it was the eyes, the hands.  His movements grew stiff but tightly controlled as if he was withholding unrivaled anger. This side of him was what scared Gibson more; this unpredictable enigma of anger, ready to go off but never did. Gibson had seen the killer intent in his eyes and not even that could rival the darkness that formed over his face whenever he was angry, furious, enraged.

Willing to do more than kill. Had he looked at Jill that way before he killed her?

“You like justice so much. Why not then?”

“I-I-I-“

“Don’t bother. I don’t expect you to.”

Suddenly the metal door opened as noted by the mechanic sounds and Hoffman, in the blink of an eye, reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun. He pointed to the wall, gesturing Gibson to move as he leaned against the door, invisible to whoever, looked from the outside in. With lighting speed, Hoffman loaded the gun and pointed it to whoever had arrived. In the doorway stood a man, whom Gibson had never seen before. He was of average height, buffer than most with short brown hair. He looked unaffected by the gun in his face, slowly forcing his hand on the barrel to direct it away from his forehead. Hoffman stepped back, albeit closer to Gibson. He panned his gaze over to the officer, raising an eyebrow.

 “What do you want?” Hoffman scoffed, hiding his gun inside his jacket.

“What a nice greeting. I came to tell you that the ascension has been complete. I’m taking over so you’re free to do whatever. Be warned though; he’s looking for you.” The man crossed his arms, leaning against the door.

“Does he know where we are?”

“No. Not yet. And you can’t use your pet project as a shield anymore either.” The man pointed at Gibson. “His brother has given a bounty for his return.”

A thought flashed in the back of the officer’s mind. And he crawled closer, the words fighting for dominance to escape his lips. But he had to restrain himself otherwise, he’d be speaking in tongues.  

“My brother…? How long have I been gone?”  

“A month. Some are starting to think you were helping Jigsaw. After all, how come you be the only possible survivor of the Internal Affairs massacre and suddenly disappear without a trace?”

A flicker of anger flared inside Gibson and he glared at Hoffman. That would explain a lot of that was the case… but at the same time, he didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe that he was more than just a toy.

“Did you-“

“No.” the other man cut him off. “If he wanted to, you’d be dead long ago. Besides he already made that mistake once.”

Gibson couldn’t believe it but a sense of relief began to resonate with him. “Then…?”

 “You’re far too precious for him.”                                                                                          

An uncomfortable silence layered over the bathroom as Gibson looked away, refusing to acknowledge and let anyone acknowledge the blush that had crept across his face. ‘Precious’ even? No, there had to be more than that. Hoffman had to have a master plan in which Gibson was a part of. But that could implicate that there was also a chance for survival.

“Unless you got something important to say, I’d suggest you fuck off,” Hoffman said, his voice lighter than usual. It didn’t quite touch the edges of anger but rather bordering of annoyance.

The man shrugged his shoulder in a quick and careless effort. “All right, although Hoffman, you’re on the FBI wanted list. All states are coming for your head so if you wanna get away, now’s your chance.”

“I figured that much.”

“Amazing you want to quit. But I guess it can’t be helped. The legacy must continue, but I’ll wait until the timing is right. There’s a time and place for everything.  After all; I speak for the dead. Like John.” The man said, backing away into the hallway.

“And you.” His voice echoed in the hall before it was replaced by the sounds of the metal door, opening, closing, and locking.

As soon as the man had left, Hoffman stormed over to Gibson, grabbing his healthy arm to yank him up to stand on his feet. Before the officer could comprehend what was happening, let alone asking any questions, Hoffman pointed at the shirt before storming out the bathroom.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He said shortly before he disappeared behind the doorframe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cookie who can guess who the unnamed man is. Hint, it’s in the dialogue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More character development as the boys find a new base.

When he was a kid, Gibson remembered wanting to be in the trunk of the car so that he wouldn’t deal with his brother’s pranks while the family was on joyrides. Of course, their parents never followed through with such an idea or any of his ideas for that matter and Gibson continued to fight with his brother in the backseat for many years. 

Bizarrely, he would finally get his childhood wish granted in the most absurd of ways; being forced in there by a ticking time bomb. There was little space to move around in and even though great precautions for his shoulder had been taken, the officer found himself in an awkward position that seemed to gnaw away at his joints.

Ultimately, their constant bickering had helped strengthen their bond and although their parents were no more, they continued to support each other, although Gibson had not been talking to his brother that often during the hunt for Jigsaw. It was something, the officer regretted terribly, especially when there was a chance that he would never see his only family again.

He was a suspect. Someone believed that he had agreed to all of this carnage. How tragic; here he was, having pledged multiple years of his life to protect and serve, only to get slapped in the face and kicked in the groin, the second that things got unusual.

Gibson loved his job but he knew how desperate law enforcement could be for results, so much in fact that they’d grasp for straws and in worst case scenarios, pull stuff out of their asses if that meant they’d get their culprit.

To say he felt betrayed was an understatement.

This time around, Hoffman drove much more carefully, most likely to keep a low profile. On occasion, there were swings and bumps but nothing nearly as wild as their last joyride. Still, though, the fact that Gibson was trapped in the trunk of this car, unnerved him. But on the other hand, this the closest thing to fresh air, he’d ever gotten, even if it lasted for half a minute.

After an eternity or two, the car finally stopped and the engine was shut off. Footsteps on gravel closed in on Gibson before the lid of the trunk was finally opened. It was still night but he could clearly see the outline of Hoffman, staring down at him.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asked, pulling the officer out of the car.

“My everything hurts.” Gibson groaned as he stretched his sore limbs.

They were in a parking lot, in the middle of nowhere. There were a few other cars and some bikes located near a big two-story building with a giant defective neon sign reading “MOTEL”. What in the world was Hoffman doing in a public place, especially since all the states were after him?

“What is this place?” Gibson asked, but received no answer. Instead, his arm was grabbed by Hoffman and they hurried through the main entrance. The lobby was vacant and pretty shabby, complete with hideous interior; ranging from sickly yellow walls to crude paintings.

An elderly woman sat by the desk, busy making crosswords. She was completely oblivious to the world around her, let alone the two men in front of her. Hoffman looked at Gibson, then pointed at the lady and the officer quickly understood. This would be a perfect opportunity for an escape or maybe even a cry for help. In theory, everything was lined up for him to secure his freedom; everything except for Hoffman staring him down underneath the shadow of his hood.

“Uhm…” Gibson began, causing the woman to look up in surprise. Her thick glasses hung on her nose before she quickly repositioned them on her face. “Oh goodness me, how can I help you, ma’am.”

The officer blinked for a couple of moments, ready to object at the misgendering but then he remembered his situation. It was best to keep a low profile until the time was right.

 “Room for two.” He finally said, taking note of how hoarse his voice was. A bright smile appeared on the woman’s face before she turned around to grab a key on the wall behind her. Without asking for ID or a phone number, or even anything normal people would demand, she handed Gibson a key alongside a bill.

Gibson looked down at the number and scoffed of how cheap this place was. He was about to check the door number on the key when Hoffman suddenly snatched it out of his hands and put a stack of money on the table. The woman’s eyes grew big upon seeing the amount of cash and with shaky hands, she quickly reached out and clawed the money towards herself.

“Uhm… multiple nights.” Gibson said. 

“Yes of course,” she answered with a quiet voice.

Firmly, Hoffman grabbed Gibson’s arm and dragged him out of the lobby, across the parking lot and towards the building with the motel rooms. From a distance, it looked like every other ordinary resting place for travelers on the road but a closer inspection told a quite different tale. The building was stained with graffiti, beer bottles, used syringes, everything one would find in the most depraved of ghettos. From the rooms on the first floor, loud music accompanied by even louder shouting could be heard. A bottle flew out of a window and smashed in bits and pieces upon impact, dangerously close to Gibson and Hoffman.

Thankfully, their room was located on ground level so they wouldn’t have to deal with meatheads and gang members putting holes through walls. Presumably.

The room itself was tiny but densely decorated. In the main room, there was a single double bed, a small kitchen with a fridge, an oven, and a microwave. Lastly, there was a small table with two chairs and a table with a TV on it. Aside from the devious smell of dust and suspicious stains on the carpet, it looked neat for what it was.

“Why was it so easy to get a room here?” Gibson said as he sat down on the bed, praying that it was clean. He pulled his knees underneath his chin, watching as Hoffman finally pulled down his hood and threw his jacket on the other side of the bed.  “Because this place is a gathering place for criminals.”

“So, you come here a lot or something?” 

“For the record, no.”

Silence layered over the room as Hoffman sat down on the bed with a loud thud, yet he still carefully controlled every movement he did.

“What… are you gonna do if the police find us?” Truth be told, Gibson already knew the answer to that. It was idiotic for him to ask but he needed something to kill this silence. Being alone with a mass murderer in this tiny space spawned a whole lot of horrible thoughts.

“You already know,” Hoffman answered in a deep voice. He leaned over to grab a bag and fished out a map and some markers. Gibson noticed it was part of the same map from the tiny computer room in the bunker. Seemingly Hoffman still planned to flee the country to the Bahamas or wherever.

“Considering your previous crimes and by the off chance that you get captured anyways, that’s either multiple life sentences if you pledge guilty or the death penalty if you don’t.” Another bit of useless information but it helped to kill the awful awkwardness that would arise whenever the two of them were alone in silence.

“I’m aware of that.” Hoffman sighed.

“I know you do. I don’t know why I said that.”

A low snort emerged from Hoffman and for a brief second, it almost sounded like a chuckle.

“…Because you were worried?”  He said with that soft, husky tone; that same tone that made Gibson’s knees liquify.

“No! I’m not! I’m… not.” No, he absolutely wasn’t, but he couldn’t deny the new effect that Hoffman had on him. In this horrid situation, it was the closest thing to comfort he had and Hoffman was, no matter the state of their relationship, his one and only means of human interaction. It sucked but it was what he had to work with.

Gibson looked away to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks. At this point, Hoffman had to know the effect he had on Gibson; there was no way, he could not be aware of that, unfortunate as it might seemed.

Gibson felt the weight of Hoffman rise from the bed and felt compelled to finally turn and look at his former colleague although he wished he hadn’t as Hoffman was now looking directly at him, his eyes darkened by the dim lighting of the motel room.  

“You’re a still an awful liar, Matt. Not uncommon for such a goody-two-shoes such as yourself” Hoffman hovered over him like a hawk.   

“Wha…?”

“Relax. Take it as a compliment.”

Gibson couldn’t help but feel that it was more of an insult than actual praise. He said nothing and instead headed to the bathroom. Hoffman would not get the pleasure of seeing him this flustered.

\---

Upon looking in the mirror, Gibson now understood why the receptionist had mistaken him for a woman. He recognized the brown eyes staring back at him but everything else looked like it belonged to a completely different person. He had lost a worrying amount of weight as his clothes practically struggled to stay on his body. He had not seen the sun in what felt like an eternity as evident by the sickly paleness of his skin. Overall, he looked horribly shabby and his now long hair didn’t help his case. Lack of body hair had always been an issue that others teased him for until he had hit the gym while at the police academy. Tragic; to spend all that time pushing weights only to lose it all again.

Sighing quietly, Gibson washed his face and turned around, leaving the bathroom. As he stood in the doorway, he found himself oddly captivated by Hoffman, who had placed himself by the tiny kitchen table. He sat there, completely motionless, looking down while his hands rested on the table with intertwined fingers. It appeared that he was deep in thoughts; regretting his life decisions perhaps?

Hoffman looked worse for wear; he wasn’t pale or thin or anything like that but there were dark circles under his eye and his stubble had grown more prominent. In short, he carried the face of a man molded by a horrible life. He must have noticed Gibson staring at him because he quickly looked up with that same nonchalant expression.

“What?” he asked dryly.

“Uhm…”

“Go take a shower, it will do you good.” Hoffman softened up.

“…You’re barely older than me and you sound like my dad.” Gibson scoffed. He didn’t have the energy to start showering but on the other hand, he didn’t want Hoffman to undress him again…

“Hm.” Hoffman snorted, in the closest thing that could resemble a laugh. “For the time being, only I know what’s best for you.”

“Because you won’t tell me anything.”

“…You’ll understand in due time.”

“And when is that? Where are you taking me? What do you want with me?”

Another round of tense silence ensued until Hoffman suddenly got up from the chair and stormed towards Gibson. In the blink of an eye, the officer stood face to face with his abductor, who grabbed the loose collar of his shirt. Hoffman pulled Gibson so close that they could practically kiss. In every other setting, it would have been a weirdly romantic setting but the shadow that loomed in his eyes,

“Your survival.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, looks like the Stockholm Syndrome is slowly but surely kicking in.   
> Next chapter will be flangtastic, (fluff and angst) *wink*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: gore is happening here.

A loud knock on the door suddenly woke Gibson up from his slumber. He lay a bit on the bed, trying to comprehend what the hell was going on but he didn’t dare to open his eyes. It was not until he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him to consciousness that he shut his eyes open. Amidst the dim lighting of the twilight, Gibson could see Hoffman’s face, mouthing “Hide”.

The knocking continued followed by incoherent yelling while Hoffman quickly loaded a gun and carefully headed to the door. There was no blaring lights or sirens going off so it was the not the police. Considering what Gibson knew about this place, chills suddenly ran down his spine. What had Hoffman been doing while he was sleeping?

The officer did as told and carefully slipped out of the bedcovers before rolling down underneath the bed. Here was terribly dusty and dirty, suggesting that it had not seen an ounce of cleaning. But if he meant to survive to see another day, he had no choice but to breathe through his nose and keep his germaphobia under control.

Gibson could suddenly see the edges of daylight emerge into the room as Hoffman opened the door. Several shadows loomed over the carpet floor.  

“Woah there, dude. We just wanted some beer. I saw how much money, you handed over in the lobby; you can afford to share a couple Franklins, right? Be generous; we only want some beer.”

“I don’t have any.” Hoffman spat dryly and shut the door in the guy’s face.

Suddenly the door was practically kicked down, hanging pitifully in the remains of the hinges.

“Don’t fuck with me, asshole!” the man’s demeanor has completely changed. Gibson couldn’t tell what was happening but that soon became very apparent when several feet stormed into the small motel room and a brawl broke out.

Several bodies fell to the floor with blood gushing out of wounds on vital areas.

A man who had appeared dead and lay dangerously close to the bed, suddenly came to life as he lay eyes on Gibson underneath the bed. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, giving him an edge of the insane variety as a maniacal grin appeared on his face. Before Gibson could roll away, the man grabbed tightly around his ankle, pulling him out to the carnage. The man was unsteady in his movements, blood pouring out of his chest. He managed to trap Gibson underneath his weight while a bloody hand grabbed the officer by the neck, choking him. Gibson cursed internally, flailing for his life underneath the much bigger man.

Screams of agony filled the room as blood splattered everywhere; across the floor, on the walls, all over Hoffman’s face. The gun was merely for show as he was perfectly capable of killing without it, using a small blade to slit throats and stab guts.

More men kept storming the room with Hoffman killing every one of them. One, however, managed to punch Hoffman directly in the face, blood gushing out of his nose. Although he remained unfazed by the blow, he suddenly flinched before clutching the side of his abdomen with a trail of blood trickling down his coat. A man stood next to him with a bloodied knife in hand; he was going for another kill when Hoffman jammed his blade right under the man’s chin. Reality faded in and out for Gibson as he desperately clawed the man to release him. Instead, he tightened his grip and Gibson felt the walls of his throat closing in on themselves. He continued to gasp for air, he could not receive as tears filled his eyes.

In a split second, it was felt like his soul literally left his body. He could hear himself scream something with what little power he had. He knew what he was saying, and yet he couldn’t believe it. He was actively begging Hoffman for help.

 “Shut the fuck-“ the man screeched, his words cut short by a gunshot. Blood and brain matter splattered all over Gibson, the floor, the wall, everything. The man’s face was frozen in that maniacal smile before fading into a lifeless gap, all signs of life leaving his eyes. Before he could slump over the officer, a gloved hand pulled the body away. Just then, even more, men entered the small room, trying to avenge their fallen friends but they too fell victim to Hoffman’s knife.

All while, Gibson sat on the floor, his wide eyes seeing the horror occur through his fingers. There was a certain inhuman ferocity over Hoffman’s face as he continued to kill; it was not the same look as when he had killed that homeless man. It was something fueled by a primal, intense anger. It was horrifying, to say the least; this was the very first time, Gibson had been absolutely terrified of the enigma that was Mark Hoffman.

Gibson had done nothing and yet, it was as if his soul died along with that man; he had done nothing and yet, this blood that was slowly drying was a testament to his guilt. Hoffman’s sins were his sins now. Had this been Hoffman’s plan all along? Corrupting him to the point where he could no longer call himself a productive member of society? If so, he more than succeeded.

Gibson repressed the urge to release the bile that threatened to escape his throat. Instead, he sat completely motionless, his heart hammering in his chest. Everything around felt so unreal, like a mirage in the desert. It felt so distant and yet the smell of blood hung heavily in the air.

“We’re leaving,” Hoffman said, grabbing the officer by the arm and pulling him to stand on his weak legs. There was no time for cleaning so Hoffman simply fished a black and red robe out of his bag and tossed it at a bewildered Gibson.

“Put it on,” Hoffman commanded, pulling his hood over his face. He dragged a couple of bodies to the bathroom and put the rest of them near the stove before switching on all four burners. He grabbed a pan, took some old food from the fridge and proceeded to pour it into the pan. Soon enough, the motel room was filled with the smell of something burnt. With his bag in hand, he gestured Gibson to hurry up with the robe.

“What are you…?”

“The stove won’t catch on fire unless something is cooking on it,” Hoffman answered before grabbing Gibson by the arm and dragging him along. By now the sun was present, although hidden behind legions of grey clouds. It looked like it was supposed to rain soon. For the brief moments, it lasted, Gibson basked in it; it didn’t matter that it was a grim day with grey skies. What mattered that he could finally see the light of day.

The pair hurried to the car, having left the key on the door handle.

Even if this place was home to a lot of regular crime, a mass slaughter of this caliber would surely catch the attention of law enforcement.

In the early morning, they drove off. Since it was daytime, it would look suspicious if Gibson was shoved into the trunk of the car so Hoffman forced him into the backseat of the car. The roads were mostly empty, except for the odd driver here and there- Most likely because they were driving on a backroad of all things.

“You can’t open the door from the outside. It’s childproof.” Hoffman suddenly said. Strange, seeing how Gibson hadn’t even thought of that, let alone escape. His mind was still busy coping with the events at the motel. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the man’s lifeless eyes burning a hole into his soul with their stare.

Seeing the trees pass by time and time again, made Gibson realize how exhausted he was. His neck was throbbing, most likely recovering from the death grip from earlier. The robe happened to be oversized as well but it was comfortable.

It smelled of Hoffman.

Soon small droplets of water hit the window and honestly, it was soothing. Amidst all of this chaos, this felt like a nice sense of normalcy; a safe-space for all the chaos that Gibson found himself in. It had been a while since he could relax like this, considering his current situation. Little by little, he closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion take over and soon the image of the man faded to the back of his mind.

\-----------

A wet cloth to the side of his face brought Gibson back to reality. It was not until now that he realized that he had been crying in his sleep. He looked up to be greeted by Hoffman’s bloodied face only to look down again. He couldn’t bear to face anyone right now, in case they’d see how rotten he had become.  

Thankfully, Hoffman must have sensed that because he soon removed the cloth and backed away.

“Here.” He said, handing the cloth to the officer, who quickly got rid of the dried blood. Gibson had expected him to crawl back to the front seat and drive off but instead, he kept sitting right beside him. A quick sound from a cork leaving its bottle. Teary-eyed, Gibson looked at Hoffman, watching him as he drank directly from the bottle and then wipe his face clean in a most unflattering manner. Eventually, it occurred to him that he was being stared at and he slipped the bottle onto the passenger seat. If he was intoxicated at all, he sure hid it well.

“It dulls everything.” He said with a sigh. By now, he had washed away the blood from his face. Aside from a swollen and bandaged nose, he looked relatively clean, even if it was becoming even more apparent that he had basically fucked his own sleeping cycle.

The sun was still up, albeit closing in on the afternoon but the rain had worsened since then. By the looks of it, it appeared that they were parked in a dense forest. Aside from the occasional bird, there was not a sign of life here.

“We’ll cross the border soon,”  Hoffman said after a long pause. So, he did plan to take Gibson to another country. But why?

“To where?” Gibson asked in all ignorance.

“Mexico.” 

Another pause emerged between them and although Gibson had more questions regarding Hoffman’s plan, there was another issue, that kept pressing; the murders.

 “What… happened?” he asked, unsure if he was too direct. He initially thought he should be more cryptic but he knew that if he did that, there’d be a change that he wouldn’t understand whatever came out of his mouth.

“What the hell are you talking about? Hoffman asked, in a weird mix of confusion and morbid curiosity, almost as if the question had been of absurd proportions.

“You weren’t… you. You had this look that like you were in a killing trance.”

Hoffman’s eyes widened. It had been the first time, Gibson had seen him off-balance, much less surprised.  He stalled for a second before reaching for the bottle again.

“I was just protecting you.” He said, chugging down the last sip. The bottle had been almost empty since his first drink but it still irked Gibson that Hoffman was drinking, presumably driving at the same time. If he tried to live under the grid, then he failed miserably. Then again, maybe there was a meaning behind the madness.

“I guess you were. But… I’m not Angela-“  Gibson began only to be cut off by Hoffman.

“I know that. That’s why I’m not making that mistake again.”

The officer stalled. No matter how one looked at the Jigsaw conspiracy, Hoffman did start all of this because the justice system failed to convict his sister’s killer. A tragic beginning to a tale of horrifying proportions.

“I’m…”

As if he read his mind, Hoffman raised his hand, gesturing Gibson to forget giving condolences. Although he looked relatively fine for who he was, there was a certain strained edge to his movements that suggested that he was everything but fine. It reminded Gibson of his brother’s behavior when their mother had died following a long battle with Alzheimer’s. He had found his brother in a bar somewhere, drinking his sorrows away when the mask of coping became too heavy to wear. Gibson had taken the grief much more heavy-handedly, crying at the announcement of her passing and at the funeral. He cried the following week but slowly the pain had begun to fade.

The feeling of loss was a horrible thing.

Another pause emerged between the two before Gibson broke it with another question. Or rather a realization, evolving from a theory that had been brewing in the back of his mind ever since they left the bunker. And now when Gibson knew what Hoffman wanted with him, the pieces started to fall in place.

“That guy. What he said… am I really precious to you? Is that the reason why you dragged me along? And saved me three times now? Because you-”

“Yes. I do.” Hoffman admitted.

“I guess I’m supposed to be flattered… but not like this.”

“That’s not the normal way to go about it, I know. But, to ensure your safety, I need to control what happens to you, so you will stay alive.”

“By taking me to the Mexico or wherever the hell we are going?”

“Yes.”

“I…” Gibson wanted to protest. He wanted to shout and scream, punch Hoffman in his stupid face. This was wrong, this was horrible. This was anything else than noble, but Gibson remained strangely quiet. Instead, he stared blankly at Hoffman, trying to find the words for all of this. 

His heart skipped a beat when Hoffman’s gloveless hand cupped his cheek; he could feel the warmth through the thick leather.

“I know what’s best for you. Can you trust me with that?”

Gibson nodded. Unironically. He wanted to believe that he was doing this for his survival, that this was another step into making Hoffman trust him, so his escape to come sooner but it became increasingly harder to focus on an escape plan. A stinging in his heart emerged whenever the thought of being apart from Hoffman crossed his mind. He had saved his life three times now, and the whole reason why Gibson started working in the Internal Affairs department was because of Hoffman. No matter how one looked at it, his life was connected to Hoffman in more ways than one.

And now, with their sins entwined, they only had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had written the dialogue before the “action” and I wanted to keep it all in this chapter so I could showcase Gibson giving in to Hoffman, and that is why this chapter is so long lol.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooooo sorry for the hiatus. Exams have been crazy AF and I’m still not even done but I’m holding some mini vacation so I've decided to write a bit and update some of my stories.

There was no way, Gibson could look his brother in the eyes again, not after what had happened, despite of how much he wanted to see him. At the slightest hint at the thought, his heart ached so terribly that he was ready to break down and cry. But on the other hand, he had come to understand that it was much healthier for his mind to embrace it all and simply let go of his humanity. A sense of guilt followed by relief washed over him while he watched Hoffman prepared to start the car. By now it had become evening and it occurred to Gibson that he hadn’t eaten all day as evident by his stomach growling.

“Tell me… what will become of us?” he asked as he lay down on the backseat again, his voice appearing as an exhausted whisper. He was still very much tired but hunger kept him wide awake.

“We’ll find a way. You should rest for now.” Hoffman answered in his trademarked cryptic manner but his tone was the softest it had ever been. It touched something within Gibson, perhaps because it was like music to his ears in this time of death and chaos.

“Heh, I can’t really… I’m pretty hungry.” He sighed, sitting up again. His stomach growled again, this time so furiously that he felt like throwing up. He pulled the knees underneath his chin and tried to think on other things than the raging hunger, causing his stomach to almost eat itself.

“Fine. I’ll get you something.” Hoffman said, taking a swing to the right. They soon drove through a small town, too small to be a city and too big to be a village. It was that kind of city that would attract some people, looking for a peaceful yet not desolate area to call home. Thus, there were no people on the street aside from a few teens, either going or leaving a party, judging from their outfits.

A closed grocery store appeared on the right side and Hoffman closed in on it, heading for the end of the vacant parking lot. There was little light here, giving it a somewhat eerie feeling amidst the darkness where the car’s headlights couldn’t shine through.

“What are you…?” Gibson asked, hoping that Hoffman didn’t plan to do what he feared. The officer couldn’t deal with the thought of having to see more people die by one man’s hand. If they had to leave the country, it should at least be by peaceful means.

Without answering, Hoffman shut the engine off and got out. He closed the door behind him, locking it. So, he didn’t fully trust Gibson yet, it seemed. Fishing a flashlight out of his pocket, he made way to a container and opened the lid, all with a straight face where he quickly scooped up a few untouched packages of easy meals and some juice before returning to the car and putting the food on the passenger seat. There was no smell, as Gibson had suspected but he could still feel the bile threatening to escape his throat.

 “Ugh, that’s gross,“ Gibson heard himself say.  

“Don’t worry, it’s still fresh,” Hoffman assured him as the car was started. He grabbed a package of fried noodles with chicken and tossed it to the backseat. Sure enough, it looked fresh but God knew how it tasted.

As Gibson struggled to eat, the car drove off again and they soon found themselves on the highway. For someone who had just chugged down half a bottle, Hoffman sure was steady behind the wheel. After a little while, he turned on the radio and some horrible rock music left the speakers, only to be interrupted by a news segment, hosted by a deep masculine voice.

“It has since been five weeks since Matt Gibson, an officer from the Internal Affairs department, was reported missing, following the massacre at the local police station. Investigators have currently no new clues regarding his whereabouts but there have been sightings of him in the southern states accompanied by an unidentified figure, believed to be Mark Hoffman. Law enforcement asks of everyone to report anything, they might have heard or seen.”

The word ‘massacre’ left such a bad taste in Gibson’s mouth whenever he heard it. Until now, the reality had peacefully rested in the back of his mind, resonating as an afterthought, even if his current situation was apparent; a constant reminder of what had occurred.

“And now, a word with the missing victim’s brother.”  Gibson’s heart skipped a beat when he heard the name of his only family.

“Thank you, uhm. Matty, if you hear this, I want you to know that I love you very much, brother and I hope, you’re well, wherever you are. I miss you and…”

The segment was temporarily stopped by a soft sob.

“I’ll be waiting until you come home.”  And the segment ended thusly before different news filled the air, but in Gibson’s head, the voice of his brother kept reminding him of why he was here, to begin with. No, he didn’t choose this.

But he was too cursed to ever return.

* * *

Along the ride, Gibson must have fallen asleep as he found himself in unfamiliar quarters. It looked like an abandoned shag. There was dust everywhere and the air lingered heavily of old wood.

“Where are we…?” he asked, sitting up slowly. He noticed Hoffman sitting near a table, hunched over as if he was deep in thought. A bottle of vodka was placed on the table, half-full; it seemed that he had already been drinking while Gibson had been asleep.

“Waiting for the coyote.”

“The what?”’

“The one to bring us out of the country.”

“O-oh.”

Afterward, silence entered the shag, apart from the wind howling through the floorboards sporadically. Gibson caught himself looking at

“Hoffma-Mark.” Gibson said, trying to sound as serious as he possibly could. His heart skipped a beat when Hoffman rose from his hunched state, looking at him with those enigmatic eyes. He was not sure of what to expect by using Hoffman’s first name but it seemed to catch the man’s attention regardless of how nervous it made Gibson feel.

 “I don’t understand. Why did you join Kramer? Surely, you had a reason to, right?”

“Because I choose to. He saw something within me and I took advantage of that.”

“One thing leads to another I suppose,” Gibson said after a slow pause. He was skeptical of that conclusion if that could even be called a conclusion. Then again, the small pieces began to make sense, given Hoffman’s nature. It was only a matter of time, which only made Gibson’s rescue the more surprising. He ran a hair through his hair, which had grown to shoulder lengths; making him look more and more like a woman. Or a heroin addict, given how thin he was.

“Don’t worry. The past is in the past. The important thing is that I’m not Jigsaw anymore. We’ll be free and everything will be forgotten.”

“Forgotten… will it ever?”

Gibson did not expect Hoffman to answer and he was right about to assume that. Instead, Hoffman grabbed his hands and pulled him close. Having no will to fight or protest, Gibson let it happen, struggling to stop the tears. It didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, it didn’t hurt but it was so empty. Never had he been surrounded by such a hug and yet felt so alone.

“I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know…” he muttered, burying his face in Hoffman’s broad shoulder.

A sudden knock on the door ended the embrace abruptly, leaving Gibson feeling ever so cold and lonely. There was a certain pattern to the knocks, almost as if it was some sort of code. The door opened shortly after, presumably the arrival of the coyote.

The so-called “coyote” was a middle-aged man with graying hair across his short hair and thick mustache, and a rather large gut. He smelled strongly of beer and cigarettes, flashing yellow teeth whenever he opened his mouth.

“Oh? Is that the one? The one that got away?” he said, speaking with a pronounced undeterminable accent. He eyed Gibson with great curiosity. There was a glimmer in his eye that made shivers run down Gibson’s spine.

Hoffman ignored his question. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes. Follow me.” The man said and headed to the exit and Hoffman grabbed Gibson’s wrist and pulled, dragging the officer after him. Outside, the sun had begun to set, hiding behind a legion of tall trees. Next to Hoffman’s car, was a large black van with Mexican license plates. The man opened the back and ushered the pair inside,

The back of the wan was filled with handyman tools, dangling dangerously from their spot on the inner walls. Thus, Gibson felt compelled to remain cramped in the corner of the van as it drove off, He curled into a ball, looking at Hoffman who looked through a briefcase religiously, apparently containing everything needed for the life behind the border.

“How long until we’re at the border?”

“We should be there at midnight.”

“Take this on.” Hoffman suddenly said, throwing a rag at Gibson. Upon unfolding it, he came to realize that it was simple, knee-length, black dress with long sleeves and an open back. The fabric was soft and silky but even if it felt nice to touch, it didn’t change the fact about what it was.

“This is-“

“I know. Wear it.” That was not a request.

Unnerved by the command, Gibson removed his shirt and slipped on the drees. It felt somewhat nice with a change of clothes but this was not what he had in mind when he thought of new clothes. The dress fitted him rather well in size, although he horribly misplaced. He quickly sat down and curled into a ball, noting how Hoffman eyed him in the dress.

Sometime later, very early from midnight the van suddenly stopped, causing Hoffman to fish out his gun. As if the coyote could read Hoffman’s mind, he held up a hand and explained “Looks like I’m out of gas. I got some extra though so just wait while I tank up. It shouldn’t be long before I'm back,"

Hoffman was not entirely convinced as he had yet to lower the gun, even as the coyote grabbed a large bottle of gasoline and showed it to the back as proof before shutting the engine off and getting out of the van. There was some rustling near the van that subdued over time, leaving a quiet trail. A few minutes passed and there were still no signs of the coyote.

That was enough for Hoffman to take action as he grabbed a few extra bullets from his bag and stuffed them into his pockets.

“Whatever happens, do _not_ move. Understand?” he commanded and Gibson nodded quickly. He sat and watched as Hoffman crawled over the back to the front seats and attempted to open the doors, which had been locked. However, with his pistol, he smashed a sizable hole into the windshield and crawled out, wandering about. Unlike the coyote, Hoffman’s steps continued to tread around the van before fading into the silent dead of the night.

“Hoffman?” the officer asked, hoping to higher forces that he was correct.

But to his uneasy surprise, it was the coyote, the spark in his eye stronger than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those who don't know, a coyote, in this context, is not a wild doggo but a human smuggler that usually smuggles people from Mexico to the US but in this case, it's the other way around.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coyote bares its teeth and revelations are brought to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo mama, it has been a while, hasn’t it? This summer has been the most stressful period of my life because I had to spend the last two months preparing for exams and my thesis. Furthermore, the semester started again but it’s a relatively easy schedule, so I have more time between writing my thesis, studying and writing. So, thank Jesus for that.   
> Ah, I suppose a warning ought to suffice. Non-con elements and mild gore

The coyote kept staring at him, ignoring his question whilst Gibson crawled back instinctively. Shivers ran down his spine as he watched a slimy tongue glide over the bushy mustache. Gibson sank and tried to mask the trembling that exposed his nervousness.

“Where’s Hoffman?” he asked when he hit the back of the van’s seats and realized, he couldn’t crawl further back. He grabbed the edges of the dress, feeling incredibly vulnerable. He shuddered at the lazy gaze, the coyote gave him.

“Not around.”

“What are you doing then?”

The coyote suddenly laughed before hopping into the small space with little effort. He closed the doors behind him and came closer whole the twinkle in his eyes grew more intense.  The air was slowly poisoned by the stench of alcohol and tobacco, as he came closer.

“Taking the liberty of getting to know you better. Even if Hoffman paid me well, I think a little extra payment in the shape of some… goods,”

“What?”

“I thought you were some kind of a sick sissy when I made the passports but seeing you in person… you are quite exquisite, especially in that dress.”

Now the coyote was within touching distance of Gibson; so close that he could count the speckles of gray in his hair.

Gibson took a deep breath, his mind racing for whatever options he had. A heartbeat passed, then two, then three. On the fourth, he sucker punched the coyote right in his face and leaped to the door, struggling to open it, Behind him, the coyote was spitting curses in whatever language, he spoke natively. However, before Gibson managed to grab the handles properly, a tight grip around his ankle yanked him from the door and onto the floor, with the coyote bringing his entire weight on Gibson. He squirmed violently but lack of a substantial diet and exercise left him a weak mess and with the bigger man pressing him against the hard surface of the

He turned his head, trying to contain the bile that had worked its way to his throat as he felt something massive and swelling pressing itself against the fabric of the dress, covering his rear. He knew what it was; oh did he know. The weight upon him slowly pressed out the energy out of him and he struggled to even move, biting his lips to catch the disgusted yelp that formed when a big gruff hand wormed its way onto the bare skin of his back.

“Don’t look so down. Let me ask you something, mi sirenita.” The coyote’s breath was hot and sultry, moistening the insides of Gibson’s ear. “Does he fuck you good?”

The vulgarity and its implications made Gibson stammer for words but now was no time to be flustered. He made one last struggle but found both of his hands pinned down while a sweaty hand traveled over his back to his stomach and then to the belt, fiddling with the buckle. Gibson shut his eyes closed, unwilling to give him the pleasure of seeing him cry. Oh, how he prayed for Hoffman’s gallant return!

Suddenly a loud gunshot popped through the small space of the van and the coyote stiffened in his movements. He grunted shortly before collapsing on top of Gibson.

“I told you to keep him, not rape him.” The voice was unfamiliar, low and threatening, around the same level as Hoffman. But it was not Hoffman and that made Gibson nervous. In front of him stood a hooded figure with a cane and a smoking gun that was quickly hidden within the coat. Gibson quickly crawled away from the heavy body of the coyote and looked back at horror; the man faced the floor with blood pooling up around him. If it hadn’t been for the incident in the motel, Gibson was certain that he would have thrown up.

He turned to the figure, only to be met by a gun pointed directly at him. In a moment of fight or flight, he swiped at whatever was fired at him, widening his eyes in horror as he felt the sharp pain piercing his skin from the dart embedded in his skin. He managed to just rip it out before the world around him got blurry and he collapsed on the spot.

\-----------

First came the musty smell, then the hard surface and finally the poorly lit room, as Gibson woke up. His head was foggy and there was an aching in his arm. He wondered what he was doing here and where he was until the past events flashed before eyes and he became suddenly aware of his situation. He had been knocked unconscious by a mysterious figure. He sat up and rubbed his wrist.

Suddenly a TV screen flashed and showed a low-quality video of Billy The Puppet, turning its head in a slow creepy manner.

“Fuck me…” Gibson sighed as he inched closer to the screen. So, it had become his turn after all.

“Hello, Matt. I wanna play a game. Right now, you are probably wondering where you are and how you ended up in this mess. Well, let me say it like this; you weren’t meant to be a part of this. You see, I only test the people who take life for granted. Normally. You thought for your life and did what you could to survive. However, I am curious; how corrupted have you become?”

The screen switched to an image of another room, showing an unconscious Hoffman chained to a pipe in an old dirty bathroom. There was a trail of blood from his nose, that had dried up by now and he happened to be barefoot. Meanwhile, Jigsaw’s distorted voice continued to speak; “Right now, your kidnapper is chained up with a toxin coursing through his blood. In an hour, this will kill him. But you can prevent it.”

A lamp shut on, revealing a syringe hanging by a thin thread. On the space under it, the word “JUDGEMENT” was written in big, blocky red letters.

“In this syringe, is an antidote that will save his life. However, as you know, he shed blood for you. So you must shed blood for him. Should you choose the syringe, you must crawl through a short space; simple as that. But tread carefully as it is filled with shards of glass that will collect your blood as payment.”

“That said,” the puppet paused as another lamp turned on behind Gibson and he turned around, only to be met by an open door with the word “FREEDOM” written in red.

“You can leave Hoffman to die and walk away, completely. Let the afterlife be the judge of his sins against society-. And you. Do you choose to carry the sins of a monster or do you give him what he deserves? The choice is yours.”

The screen flashed to black and then a timer counting down.

What was he to do? What could he do?

There were too many thoughts screaming at him all at once in his head; he couldn’t think straight. He paced around the small room, trying to figure out what to do. He wanted to leave but whenever he looked at the freedom door, his heart ached terribly. This aching compelled him to stay and grab the syringe, yanking it out of the thread. His heart sank to his stomach as he noted the thousands of glass shards spread across the floor of the small crawlspace, he saw.

Yet this tucking from the inside screamed at him to continue, pain be dammed.

There was little space to remove the glass shards, so he had little choice than to keep crawling through eh sharp pain that shot up in his hands and legs. Gibson took a deep breath through his teeth but continued onwards, even as a warm, wet feeling emerged on his pants. In his delirium, he came to realize something equal parts horrifying and equal parts beautiful; a longing for the man who had kidnapped him and planned to smuggle him to Mexico.

Yes indeed, this was love. A part of him had come to love Hoffman.

And this part gave him the strength to soldier through the pain, the tears and the tiny surge of regret that questioned everything from his emotions to his sanity.

Or lack thereof.

Taking a short pause, he lifted one hand and saw the countless pieces of glass embedded into his palm with blood pouring out of his wounds and dripping onto the floor. His vision was spinning from seeing all the blood and his heart beat fast behind his chest. His pants at this point stuck to his pants with the coagulated blood serving as a paste. He felt so fatigued all of a sudden, barely able to keep himself standing, much less continue to shovel through the glass. At one point he turned his hands onto their sides, so he wouldn’t accidentally slit his wrists.

 _Finally_. In the far end, there was an open exist with light coming through, right in time for Gibson to falter. He took some deep breaths, ignoring the thick smell of blood that choked the air of this narrow hellhole. He tried to gather courage and adjusted himself to the twinge in his hands.

He was almost there, he just needed to go a little further…

Gibson gritted his teeth and dragged himself to the exit. And sure enough, he came face to face with a dazed Hoffman. In the corner of the room, was a clock, showing that there were less than ten minutes left.

With what little energy he had left, Gibson rolled Hoffman’s sleeves up and applied the antidote. The colors returned to Hoffman’s face and he slowly opened his eyes, looking around in his confusion. His gaze finally rested on Gibson.

He had done it. He had survived a trap and made the sacrifice. He let out a relieved breath and laid his head in Hoffman’s lap, struggling to keep his eyes open. The pain faded into a numb aching and the world around him grew everlastingly cold. He felt himself smile weakly as a hand stroked him over the head.

Somewhere far away, the sound of a heavy metal door emerged but Gibson was too forgone to think anymore. His thoughts were a muddled mess and his body grew light and weightless. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he had given up everything to find a new place called home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo there may be just 9 chapters, depending on how I get my script written out. But for now, let's bet on 10.


End file.
